


c’est ça halloween

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Golden Age Hollywood, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Clarke Griffin is a classically trained actress, Bellamy Blake is a world-renowned hoofer. Their studios rope them into a holiday movie together and everyone holds their breath to see if the results will be a spooky delight or ill-fated catastrophe.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 38
Kudos: 122
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	c’est ça halloween

**Author's Note:**

  * For [animmortalist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animmortalist/gifts).



> One of these days, I’ll post on time, and it will be a grand grand day. Thanks for your patience, Ryn, I hope you like it! To learn more about t100 for BLM initiative; check out our carrd!

**INSIDE NEWS OF HOLLYWOOD**

By Jasper Jordan  
Los Angeles, Calif.   
April 20, 1936

_ Congress has the Civilian Conservation Corps and Roosevelt has his New Deal, but Tinseltown might provide us with the greatest respite since the crash—and it comes in an unlikely form. Arkadia Films will be lending one of their top stars to rival movie powerhouse The Guard Studios, and the surprising pairing has Hollywood in a buzz. Miss Clarke Griffin (known for her title role in  **The Princess** and her heartbreaking performance in  **I Have Become Death** ) will be contracted out to The Guard, and her costar is none other than Mr. Bellamy Blake (you know him as the dashing rogue in  **The Dropship Dancer** , and the charming lieutenant in Cecil B. Demille’s  **Tales of Greek Mythology** ). These two are icons, each known for their speciality; Miss Griffin has revolutionized the craft in her dramatic films and Mr. Blake enchants in his musical ensembles, but what will a combination of the two mean? Will we get a serious side of the debonair dancer? Will we see a rare smile from the traditional thespian? Rumor has it that John Murphy, award winning choreographer and long-time friend of Mr. Blake, has been signed to the as-of-yet-unnamed project, so musical fans, find a star to wish on! Or, perhaps, two.  _

—

“Miss Griffin you can’t—”

“Call security,” Clarke snaps at the doorman, who makes a face but lets her push past him into the Chateau Marmont. Kane isn’t at the office, his secretary refuses to pass along his information, and she just found out about her next film from a gossip rag. 

By Jasper Jordan, of all people. 

The lounge at Chateau Marmont isn’t officially a gentlemen-only scene, but as progressive as Los Angeles claims to be, the men in the room seem surprised to hear the sound of her heels on the marble floor. 

Not that Clarke wastes much time looking around. 

She scans the dark room, recognizing the pinstripe suit next to the bar, and storms over. Her agent isn’t alone at the table, but his guest will have to forgive the intrusion.

“What the hell is this, Kane,” she says, voice low, dropping the article on the table and jabbing a finger at the column on the top. “When were you going to tell me?”

Kane doesn’t seem surprised to see her, which is telling. He takes a long sip of a negroni, wincing. “Look, sweetheart—”

“Don’t sweetheart me,” she glowers. “You’re contracting me out?”

Kane tilts his head. “You make it sound underhanded.”

“I’m up for two Academy Awards, Kane,” Clarke says, trying her best to keep her voice level. “I graduated from l'École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, with honors, and Arkadia can sit at the table with MGM because of my work. And you’re sending me to The Guard?”

Kane winces when she mentions MGM, but draws himself up. “The Guard is a perfectly respectable—”

“To whom?” Clarke laughs. “Maybe if your talents are vaudeville and looking pretty when painted and dressed in glitter, but I’m an actress, Kane, not a showgirl, and you know I’m better than the low-class, farce of a jamboree that The Guard calls pictures.”

“You learn that in France?”

It isn’t Kane who speaks, but the man at the table with him, and Clarke looks down in surprise; she’d forgotten he was there.

“I learned that in Hollywood,” she says, not caring for the interruption, “when I went to a casting call at The Guard and they asked for my waist size and if I could shuffle.”

“That was the first thing they asked you?” the man asks, and Clarke’s eyes narrow at him. He looks vaguely familiar, the way all people in the industry do, but something’s different about him. He has soft eyes and freckles across his nose, curls spilling across his face and an unreadable expression on his face.

Of course it wasn’t the first thing they’d asked her, she’d done a sonnet for them. But that won’t help her make her case to Kane. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting your cocktail hour,” she says, instead, “Mister…?”

“Blake,” the man said, and he smiles. “Bellamy Blake.”

It’s a lovely smile, almost disarming, and Clarke suspects she’d react differently if his words weren’t sinking in. 

“Mr. Blake,” she says weakly. “The actor from—”

“The low-class, farce of a jamboree,” Bellamy says. “Nice to meet you.”

Clarke smiles, automatically, mind racing. Studio rivalries are the sort of thing swept under rugs and whispered at casting calls, not the thing to be aired, and especially not to a costar. 

Now is probably the moment to apologize.

But she hates apologizing, it feels like groveling. And she truly doesn’t see the appeal of The Guard films, and she especially doesn’t care for the smug expression on Bellamy Blake’s face as he looks at her in the dim lounge lighting. 

Retreat is out.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Blake.”

The table is silent for a moment, as the men wait for the apology that isn’t coming. Then Bellamy laughs. 

“Let me ask you, Miss Griffin,” he asks, looking down at the drink in his hand, swirling the amber liquid around the glass. “Do you know how much  _ The Princess _ made at the box office?”

Clarke looks at Kane; of course she doesn’t know that. It’s not her job to sell films, just to act in them. 

“$1.7 million,” Kane supplies.

“$1.7, that’s not bad,” Bellamy hums. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it back down on the table. “The thing is,  _ Dropship Dancer _ made $2.2.  _ My Sister’s Keeper _ made $2.7, and _ Tales of Greek Mythology _ made $3.2.”

Kane chokes on his drink and Clarke feels her cheeks flush. Bellamy doesn’t stop there. 

“They’re song and dance films, and you can turn up your nose at us, if that’s what a fancy art school in Paris teaches you, but at the end of the day, Guard Studios makes movies to make people happy, not to win awards.”

The table is silent.

Clarke shifts on her feet. “I will not laugh at that,” she says, quietly, wishing she’d said it earlier.

“Yeah, didn’t think you would,” Bellamy mutters. He downs the rest of his drink, picks up a hat and a jacket from the seat next to him and nods at Kane. 

“Good to see you, Marcus,” he says, then turns to Clarke. “See you on set.”

She steps aside to let him go, then sits down at the seat he vacated, accepting the glass that Kane pushes into her hands. 

“Beautiful work, Clarke,” he says drily, and Clarke isn’t sure if her wince is from his words or the bourbon.

—

The picture is called  _ The Nightmare Before Christmas _ , and Clarke thinks that might be a little on the nose for how the next couple of months are going to be for her.

When they drop the script to her trailer, Clarke is sure they must’ve left out a couple of pages. 

Namely, the part where her character develops  _ a character _ .

Her role as Sally consists of fluttering after Jack Skellington—a Hallow’s Eve Spirit, apparently, played by one Bellamy Blake in a top hat and tails—and warning him of the tragedies that are about to befall, and then fainting away in said tragedies as they befall. 

That’s it, that’s her role.

But Marcus assures her that it isn’t incomplete, and she assures him that if he pulls a stunt like this again, she will  _ flutter  _ right into the middle of Hollywood Boulevard and  _ faint  _ into the middle of traffic.

There’ll be a opening number at the start, with the Ziegfeld Girls fawning over how wonderful Jack Skellington is, some fantasy sequences throughout, a scene where she gets to look scared to death of Roan Winters as some sort of cursed ghoul, and a scene where she gets to whimper her way through a song about a premonition she has.

Fortunately, Clarke’s not a bad singer.

Unfortunately, the grand finale is even more twirling, and this time she has to dance with Bellamy, in front of a whirling kaleidoscope of Ziegfeld Girls. 

Not that she’ll admit it to anyone, but standing opposite Bellamy is terrifying. His pictures are sensational, and no one can tap dance like he can—and she’s going to need to match him. While wearing heels and a Victorian nightmare of a dress. 

Also while half the nation is in love with him, and will doubtless draw unfavorable comparisons between herself and Echo Ash, his co-star from  _ The Tales of Greek Mythology _ . The woman is entirely legs and if tabloids are to be believed, the two of them really hit it off.

To be fair, Echo probably didn’t insult Bellamy’s entire studio and career upon first meeting him. 

At least Clarke has John Murphy. 

The choreographer is famous for his ability to bring Bellamy’s costars up to his level, allegedly even going so far as to record Bellamy’s partner’s taps during their duets. At least someone’s looking out for her, since apparently Marcus can’t be trusted for that.

The film should only take a couple weeks to shoot, so rehearsals start right away. 

Clarke takes the bus to set.

And she’s not that kind of starlet, alright, where she’s elitist about public transit, but Arkadia Films is always good about sending cars, and apparently The Guard doesn’t do the same, so she just takes a bus. Better than asking someone for a ride, or seeming too prissy to the new studio. 

As long as the paps don’t find her, she’s fine.

The bus drops her about half a mile from The Guard; she walks the last bit to the studio, a bag with her taps and her script over her shoulder. If the guard at the gate is excited to see her, he hides it well, writing her name and checkin time on a clipboard, then letting her into the lot. 

Clarke catches her breath. 

Arkadia is all schedules and call times; actors knowing their trailers and their sets, and the walk between them, not much more. Custodians keep the lots in pristine condition, and the sets are carefully sculpted and maintained, monitored, not a set piece out of line. It’s a quiet and serene environment to work in, streamlined and focused, and it could not be farther from the scene inside the Guard’s gates. 

It reminds Clarke of the frenzy of a carnival—thinly veiled chaos, smoothed over by joviality. Only two steps inside, she’s nearly run over by a group of men jogging with a ladder, and then someone herding a sheepdog in the opposite direction. Both yell apologies over their shoulders but don’t turn to see them accepted. No one tips their hats at her, but no one seems ruffled that she’s in their way. Costumers rush by, their arms stuffed with paper mache pumpkins and black pinstripe trousers. Agents stalk around, yelling directions to secretaries a step behind them, scribbling frantically in notebooks. 

It’s a madhouse.

It’s wonderful.

Clarke finds herself almost giddy, inexplicably and immediately, before reminding herself that she’s an actress, an actual actress, and theatrics are fun, but she’s here to work. She pushes down a smile, and heads towards the building with a large '7' painted on the side.

It’s a sound stage, mostly empty, with a gramophone in the corner and a man in slacks and an undershirt next to it. She can hear the taps over the music, his feet flying over the floor and the music fading under the clamor of it. His floppy hair is in his face and he has a cigarette between his teeth, dropping ashes over the unfinished floor as he moves—John Murphy. 

The man won an Oscar for choreography, in a category they made just to award him. 

As Clarke gets closer, she can hear that he’s muttering to himself in a scratchy, irreverent voice. 

“A Cincinnati time step’ll work there...quick bombershay out of it, maybe?...like...yeah. That’ll do.”

“Mr. Murphy?” she asks, and he jumps at least a foot in the air. 

“MARY mother of—” he recovers, pushing his hair out of his face as he turns to face her, tucking his shirt in behind him. “Hi. Griffin, right?”

At Arkadia, Clarke would only be addressed at Miss Griffin, but in a drafty soundstage with oaths in the air and ashes on the floor, the formality hardly seems necessary.

Clarke nods. 

Murphy hums, the cigarette moving slightly. “Smoke bother you?”

It’s not her favorite, but she really needs him to like her. 

“It’s already in my hair,” she shrugs. “So you might as well keep on.”

Murphy grins, and Clarke is honestly amazed the thing can stay between his teeth. He reminds her of a teenager, the kind of confidence from never being bested; she gets the feeling he’ll never grow out of it.

He’s looking at her carefully, appraisingly, and Clarke knows that look. 

It’s the one everyone in the industry gives each other — are you as good as they say you are?

She is. 

But not at this. 

Murphy plucks the cigarette out, drops it on the floor and crushes the end of it under the toe of his shoe, then kicks it over to the side.

There’s a small pile of them. 

“Heard about the Chateau Marmont,” Murphy says offhandedly, an expression like guarded sympathy on his face. 

Clarke nods. “Not my finest hour.”

Murphy looks at her for a long moment, then clears his throat. “Would you take any of it back?”

Clarke thinks about the judgement on her voice and the anger on Bellamy’s. The resentment she had for Marcus that was leveled at his studio. 

“Some,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate.

Murphy gets it.

He wipes his hands on his slacks, turns back to the gramophone. He picks up the needle, positions it at the outer edge of the record, and Clarke pulls her taps out of her bag. 

It’s time to begin. 

— 

Her feet are bleeding. 

Clarke practically crawls into a row on the bus, years of training keeping her face veiled and spine straight.

She’s learned the first half of ‘This is Halloween’, though.

Murphy stopped cringing near the end of hour six of rehearsal, and after hour seven, he gave one involuntary clap, once she made it through the routine without a misstep.

She’ll take it. 

She hasn’t danced like this since her first year at Beaux-Arts. It’s a solo dance, thankfully, for Bellamy, and she’ll be in the ensemble, so she doesn’t need to be riveting. The Finale will require perfection; for this, she just has to be passable.

Back in her flat, Clarke has to change the bath water four times before it runs clear. Every bone in her body is aching, but she’s got studios and a nation to prove wrong, and maybe a costar too.

—

Day two is brutal. 

Clarke knew putting tap shoes on top of stockings on top of bandages would be painful, but knowing and doing are two different things entirely. 

Murphy is as sympathetic as he can be, which really isn’t saying much. She runs Halloween again, and again, and she knows the way to do this is until she can’t mess it up, but Clarke’s pretty certain rolling an ankle will be a sure way to muck it up, so when Murphy calls lunch early, she doesn’t question it. 

When she stumbles out of Lot 7, the sun outside catches her by surprise. She didn’t realize how dark the sound stage was, or how cramped the air. She breathes deep, the carnival imagery returning as the clamor of the studio floods around her. 

Mess hall is bustling, and Clarke’s reminded of a crowded primary school, the way different casts of different pictures crowd around their individual tables, like cliques. 

There’s a smaller table in one of the back corners, and Clarke figures that’s a good one for the Arkadia transplant. 

The food is a bit pedestrian, but passable. 

She’s determinedly picking her way through a slice of boiled ham, when a murmur goes across the hall as a shadow falls over her table. Clarke looks up to see—and she really should say every dollar her mother gave Beaux-Arts is worth it, since not only did it make her fluent in French, but nothing is betrayed in her expression—Bellamy Blake. 

She smiles, knowing it’s absolutely flat, but only he can tell. 

He smiles, also absolutely flat, also only for her to tell.

The murmur grows.

“Thelonius said I had to come over,” he mutters.

“Nice to see you, too,” Clarke says, nodding to a chair.

Looking truly strained, Bellamy sits. 

The cafeteria is determinedly not looking at them, which means everyone is looking, at least a little bit. 

“Thelonius is your agent?” Clarke asks, fairly certain that they need to look like they’re tolerating each others’ company.

Bellamy nods, unfolding a paper napkin. Clarke notices his plate for the first time, a pot roast sandwich and coleslaw that looks like it hasn’t been sitting out for hours. 

There’s a special kitchen at Arkadia for her, too.

But this isn’t Arkadia, it’s Guard, and thus, she’s the one with the subpar food for the masses, and the burden of conversation.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got the choreo for Halloween down,” she says. 

Bellamy looks up from the sandwich. 

“It’s three minutes of a routine for the ensemble,” he says, frowning a little.

Clarke looks at him, and he looks back, expression unreadable. 

She tries to be forgiving, really, she does.

It’s his house, Guard Studios, and she’s said some unkind things, but she’s been proud of herself, and she doesn’t need the condescension now; she straightens her back. “Alright, I know I’m not the professional dancer, here, but I was just trying to make conversation, and maybe you could’ve learned it in handful of hours, but I was proud of myself for—”   
“Clarke,” Bellamy interrupts, almost smiling. “I wasn’t...that’s not what I meant.”

She stops.

“Oh,” she says, poking the side of the ham with her fork, the meat dipping like it’s a prop. 

“I meant,” Bellamy says, picking his sandwich up and taking a gargantuan bite. “Three minutes in a day and a half is really fast.”

Clarke looks at him carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t. He notices her confused stare, shrugs a little like he doesn’t have anything to add, he means it; it shouldn’t make Clarke more suspicious, but it does. 

He takes another aggressively large bite of the sandwich.

She pokes the ham again. 

“Murphy’s a good teacher,” she says, quietly. 

Bellamy laughs a little. “Man’s a magician.”

The cafeteria relaxes.

Clarke almost gets it. She knows nothing about the man, but she wants him to be at ease. Maybe that’s just her guilt kicking into overtime. 

She leaves the ham, moving to the potato salad beside it. “So,” she says, more eager than she’d like to admit to keep conversation going, “what are you rehearsing for?”

“Il prigioniero,” Bellamy says, and Clarke tries to think through which scene that’s associated with in the script. Noticing, Bellamy adds, “It’s the kidnapping. There’s some effects we have to sort through, blocking, all that.”

“I wish I could trade places with you,” Clarke says, only half kidding.

“I’d take you up on that. Lot 7’s the best in the whole studio.”

He says it with a sort of unintentional wistfulness, and Clarke thinks of the papers she’s seen of the vaudeville hoofer, rising to unexpected stardom in Hollywood. She remembers the earlier articles, when Jasper was the only one writing about the man across the table from her, before the rest of the city had gotten over their prejudice and recognized his talent. 

“Can’t sing, can’t act, can dance a little,” the reviews had said. “Pretty, though.”

And now he’s the star of a studio, big enough to pull a dramatic actress from Arkadia. 

Clarke wonders if he misses his feature days, where he just had to smile and dance. Before a studio weighed on his shoulders and a country needed him to keep them happy. 

“What?” Bellamy asks, wiping at his upper lip with his napkin, looking over at Clarke.

She realizes she’s been staring.

“Um,” she pushes away the rush of empathy, scrambling for something else. “Why do they cover that when they shoot?”

Bellamy frowns slightly, and Clarke winces internally; it’s not her best work. She taps her upper lip, just under her nose; Bellamy mimics the motion, his fingers landing on a scar. Something passes quickly behind his eyes, and it’s gone just as quickly; his mouth quirks slightly. 

“You’re looking awfully close, Griffin,” he says.

If Clarke didn’t know better, she’d say he’s teasing her.

In reality, she knows he’s deflecting just as much as she is. 

She smiles, and his expression falters as they both realize it’s not fake this time. 

“Contractually obligated,” Clarke covers. “Purely professional curiosity.”

Bellamy hums, looking somewhat amused.

Clarke hopes he’s not offended. 

“Well—” she starts, but Bellamy says something at the same time; they apologize and the table is quiet again. 

Bellamy clears his throat. 

“Petroleum jelly,” he says, “between the bandage and your foot. Blisters will pop anyways, but it heals faster that way.”

Clarke didn’t know that. 

“How did you know I had blisters?” she asks instead. 

Bellamy looks down, folding his napkin on his plate. “Ah, Murphy mentioned red heels.”

That makes sense. The other alternative would be, what, that he noticed her limp? That he’d ask about her? Of course it was just a passing conversation with Murphy. 

“Good to know,” she says. “Thanks.”

Bellamy lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “Sure.”

They’re both done eating, but they also both know this is the moment where they decide if they’re going to move past the Chateau Marmont. 

Clarke figures she might as well. 

“Do you know when rehearsals are, for the finale?” she asks. 

Do you know when we’re going to have to actually work together, she means. 

“Day after tomorrow, I think,” Bellamy says.

“So,” Clarke lets out a long breath, “I’ve got two days to polish off Halloween, and then get up to your level?”

It’s not much, but it’s definitely an olive branch. 

Bellamy smiles. 

It’s a nice smile, a soft one, not the grin he gives the cameras. Like a bird on a lake, Clarke thinks, a little natural change that ripples and everything is changed. 

“Murphy’s good,” he says, “he’s not that good.” 

Clarke wrinkles her nose. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

The same bird lake smile, then Bellamy stands. “I...I’m glad I listened to Jaha,” he says, when he’s standing. He looks at her, a little uncertain, and Clarke inclines her head, graceful and flattered, because the cafeteria is watching again. 

And maybe because she is actually flattered. 

“Me too,” she says. 

Bellamy nods, like he’s dismissing himself from court and Clarke feels she should curtsy or something, but she doesn’t and he leaves.

Well. 

She folds her napkin, shaking the crumbs onto her plate. 

She’s got a hell of a lot of work to do in two days. 

— 

“You’re not floating, daff,” Murphy calls. 

Clarke’s shoulders are aching from holding her arms in the waltz stance, one nearly at eye level, the other out to her side, gracefully holding an invisible skirt. Her feet are throbbing, she’s pretty sure her thighs are shaking from the strain of each careful step while keeping her upper carriage still, and her neck is permanently tilted at the flattering but impossible angle the waltz requires. 

‘Daff’ is short for daffodil, which Murphy started calling her once he realized how weak her upper body is. 

“It’s the smoke,” she grits through the required smile, which she’s pretty sure reads as a grimace by now. “It’s throwing off the gravity in the room and I’m bogged down.”

Murphy snorts, and ashes fall from the ever present cigarette. “Remember when you were trying to impress me and said you didn’t mind the smoke?”

“Remember when I had feeling in my shoulders?” Clarke snaps, turning for the next eight count, smooth, her spine feeling like it’s fused. 

It’s Thursday, but it feels like she’s been working on this waltz for a decade, rather than a couple of days. 

The record spins out and Murphy drops the cigarette, striding over to it. 

“Again,” he says. “Close your eyes.”

Clarke straightens, waiting for the music to start. She rolls her neck and winces, the movement unnatural after her determined pose. 

“Why would I do that?” she mutters. 

“Because you’re using the room as a reference. You need to move naturally, just knowing how far each box step takes you, and not by how close you are to the pillars.”

Clarke shakes out her hands, scowling at him. “How on earth did you notice I was doing that?”

Murphy smirks, striking a match on the bottom of his shoe and lighting another cigarette. “I’m the best there is.” 

The needle strikes up the song and Clarke lifts her arms and tilts her back again, eyes closing obediently. Murphy claps out the counts from the side, and she fights back the vertigo as she whirls in the darkness. 

She finishes the number and Murphy grunts, restarts the record.

And again. 

“You’re better this way, Clarke,” he says, somewhat amused, after her fifth time. “Who knew you’d float when you’re not trying to calculate your bearings.”

“I feel like I’m in a Lewis Carrol novel,” she says, trying to catch her breath. She has her hands on her knees, bending over, begging her neck to forgive her.

“In a good or bad way?”

Clarke looks up at him. “How could an acid trip ever be in a good way?”

“Ah, daff, your socialite is showing,” Murphy sighs. “How’s it feeling though, mushrooms aside?”

Clarke straightens, rolling her shoulders. “Pretty good. I’ve almost got it in real time, I think.”

“I think so too,” Murphy says. He pulls out his cigarette, crushes it under his toe. “Ready to try with a partner?”

He didn’t have to put the cig out; it’s almost chivalrous.

“You think I’m ready for that?” she asks, not pushing for compliments. She’d scuffed up his shoes pretty bad at the end of yesterday’s practice, and though the solo practice has helped, she doesn’t fancy repeating the experience. 

“Nope,” Murphy says cheerily, “but it’s how you get better.”

She supposes he’s right. 

Doesn’t mean she’s going to like it. 

But he starts the record again; Clarke smiles like she’s supposed to, falling into the dance as Murphy begins it. 

It is easier to keep her frame this way, since she can at least rest her right arms on his shoulder, and she doesn’t have to think as hard about the routine. She’s always struggled with leading, in a normal ballroom setting, but this is choreographed like a scene, and the intricacies of it are beyond her. 

There’s also the logistical simplifications, like it’s easier to turn when someone is physically guiding the twirl.

She still steps on his toes. 

She hears him hiss, trying not to react, and she thinks it’s sweet that he doesn’t swear like she knows he wants to. They run through the routine a couple times, Murphy offering subtle critiques as they go along. 

Extend better there. 

Flourish here. 

Deeper lean, smaller step, straighten the frame, keep the stance…

“You’re calculating again, daff,” he admonishes as they finish the dance again, after Clarke’s lost count of the repetition. 

“That’s because I don’t want to cripple you,” she says. 

“Close your eyes,” he prompts, going over to start the record again. 

She closes them. 

It’s the weirdest feeling, gliding across an empty sound stage. With her eyes closed, everything else gets louder. She hears the slide of her feet, the rustle of her skirts, the catch on the record, Murphy’s muffled instructions. 

The record runs out, and she waits while he resets it. 

He steps back and they begin around, swirling around the sound stage in the darkness.

She can almost feel the grit of ashes under her feet, and when the record catches again, she keeps time, humming the melody to herself and repeating the routine while Murphy steps away to rest the record. 

When he joins her again, it feels different. 

She must actually be getting better at this, because this time, the steps just fall in. Murphy seems to be helping her a little more, a slightly different pressure on her hands, and there’s an easiness to his movements that leads her through the routine. 

Clarke’s pretty sure she’s getting lightheaded from the practice, because the cigarette smell seems fainter this time around. 

When it comes to the final cadence, she leans a little more into him, and Murphy seems to respond well to that, leading more deliberately. It’s not like he’s carrying her, but she appreciates the sturdiness in his shoulders, supporting her. 

She even manages to get through it without stepping on his toes. 

They finish the dance, the elegant dip as the record runs out, and Clarke feels a thrill of pride that she’s done it, something’s clicked and if that looked as good as it felt, it was at least halfway decent.

“Well done, daff,” Murphy says, with a quick clap. 

But his voice is muffled on a cigarette, and it doesn’t come from in front of her. 

Clarke’s eyes fly open, adjusting to the lighting of the sound stage, to find brown eyes and a bird lake smile looking back at her. 

Bellamy?

He pulls her up, and Clarke steps back instinctively, hands floundering in front of her, processing. He must’ve stepped in at the last record switch, when she was focusing on the steps and hadn’t opened her eyes between the run throughs. Was that why it felt different? It explained the faded cigarette smell, but not how moving with him had felt natural as breathing, or how much easier the steps had felt with him leading.

“Hi,” she squeaks, blaming her breathlessness on the exertion.

“Murphy’s right,” Bellamy says, and if Clarke’s not wrong, he looks a little disconcerted too. “That was really good.”

“Um,” Clarke says, mind still racing, “thanks. You too, I mean. That was...why was that easier?”

“Chemistry,” Murphy chimes in from the side of the stage, hands in his pockets, beaming at them. “If the papers are to be believed.”

“Are they?” Clarke asks stupidly. 

“They’re not,” Bellamy laughs. “Want to try it again?”

No, Clarke thinks, because I’m going to trip over myself, over thinking all this.

“Sure,” she says. 

Murphy looks entirely too pleased with himself, as he resets the record. 

It’s definitely different this time. 

Not because her eyes are open, but because it’s a new partner. And Clarke’s danced with a decent number of partners—Murphy wasn’t far off with his socialite comment earlier, and she’s a starlet in Hollywood, half her job is dancing with strangers—but this partner is different. 

Bellamy dances like it’s the easiest thing. 

It looks effortless as he does, gliding, and Clarke has to remind herself that she’s here. She lifts her chin, corrects her frame as Murphy instructed and the steps fall into place. 

It’s easy to dance with Bellamy. 

He pulls her the way she’s supposed to go, spins her carefully, and Clarke can’t avoid watching him. His face is perfectly at ease, but his eyes are alert, bright, and she knows he’s thinking of the steps and patterns ahead of them. If she’s not mistaken, he looks like he’s enjoying it, just a little. 

She can’t rationalize the triumphant smile on her face when they finish the routine. 

Murphy claps, the one triumphant clap he does when something’s gone right. 

“Damn, I’m good,” he crows. 

“It’s a great number,” Bellamy says, letting go of Clarke and grinning at his friend. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Murphy says. “But now that you’re both here, we can work through a couple of the lifts...”

Clarke’s listening, really she is. 

She’s certainly not replaying the last five minutes in her head. 

She’s definitely not wondering at how a steady hand on her lower back gave her the grace to get through a dance without stumbling. 

And she’s absolutely not wishing she could feel that grounded again. 

—

A week falls away in a flurry of blisters and line readings and rehearsals with the orchestra.

It starts raining halfway through the Friday of that next week. 

The tin roof of Lot 7 seems to exasperate the sound of the rain, but Murphy determinedly moves the gramophone closer to the floor, and they keep on. 

Clarke’s getting better.

Her taps are cleaner, her turns sharper, and she’s messing up less and less. She actually might be able to convince the audience that she, Clarke Griffin, is a dancer. 

The air is heavy and damp, clogged with rain and smoke, and Murphy calls the rehearsal in the early evening. She bandages her feet and waves him off; she’ll see him in the morning anyways. 

She doesn’t want him to see her walk to the bus stand in the rain.

She practices a couple of times without the music, keeping count in her head, barefoot. It feels stilted without a partner (any partner, she tells her imagination, stop running away), but it’s good to walk herself through it without an audience at all. 

The rain hasn’t lifted, but the sounds of the studio have dimmed, and Clarke can’t put off the inevitable any longer. She slips on her sensible heels, clutches her taps under her arm and steps into the rain. 

She’s drenched in seconds. 

It’s late enough in the summer that she’s not worried about the temperature, or catching a cold or anything, it’s just unpleasant to think of waiting in a downpour, then sitting in a puddle for the trip home. 

She hasn’t another choice though. 

Clarke is halfway to the bus stop when she hears a car slow down next to her; she looks ahead determinedly, not wanting to encourage whoever the passerby is. 

The car honks, almost hesitant, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it’s a car that’s pacing her as she walks along the boulevard, honking at her.

She keeps walking. 

Her hair is plastered to her face, and Clarke is somewhat comforted that the knowledge that she’s wholly unrecognizable and also entirely unpresentable, so whoever is stopping isn’t because they recognize her. 

Over the storm, she hears a window being rolled down, and wonders if she can sigh louder than both.

“Ma’am do you need a ride—shit, Clarke?”

Clarke’s head whips to the car; sure enough, leaning across the front seat of a baby blue Chevrolet to roll down the passenger seat window, is Bellamy Blake. 

At least there’s no point of vanity, so she doesn’t have to embarrass either of them by trying to get her hair out of her face, or anything. 

“Hi,” she calls back, keeping walking. “I’m okay, I’m almost there.”

She points, and watches Bellamy follow her hand. Bless him, his jaw actually slackens. 

“You’ve been taking the bus?”

“Why not?” she says back, rather than explain. 

A car pulls behind Bellamy; he waves for them to go around. “Clarke, get in the car.”

“I’m alright; thank you,” she calls back. At this point, her pride is all she has left. 

“Are you seri—why the hell not?”

“I’m almost to the bus stop,” she repeats.

“Clarke, for God’s sake, get out of the rain.”

“It’s fine,” she assures him, “good for the complexion. I don’t want to get your car wet.”

“And I don’t want you to get pneumonia; come on.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says, trudging on. “I’m okay.”

“Clarke!” Bellamy says, exasperation lacing his voice.

Another car pulls behind him and starts honking at his slow pace. 

“You’re holding up traffic,” Clarke calls. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bellamy brakes.

Stops the car, in the middle of the road, as another car stops behind them. Now there’s two of them, honking angrily, and when Clarke looks over, Bellamy is nonchalant as anything. 

“I’m sure these people want to get home to their families, Griffin,” he says. 

Another car joins, three of them, honking at Bellamy, and her, apparently. 

“ _ Va te faire enculer _ ,” Clarke mutters to them, the storm, and maybe herself and Bellamy too, but she rushes off the sidewalk and gets into the car. 

So now she’s sitting in a puddle in someone’s very nice interior, and she’s not sure that’s an improvement on the bus. 

Bellamy calmly takes the car out of park and traffic resumes, the horns dying behind them. 

The car is silent for a minute, until Clarke’s need for propriety overpowers her temper at being goaded.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. 

“You’re welcome,” Bellamy says cheerily. 

The car is quiet again, just the hum of an engine and the rain on the hood. 

“Are you actually mad at me giving you a lift?” Bellamy asks, after a moment. 

Clarke pushes at her hair, wondering how insane she currently looks. “I’m not,” she says, carefully. “I just...don’t like being given no choice.”

Bellamy nods, looking over his shoulder as the boulevard merges into another. “That’s fair. You shouldn’t have to be in the rain though, not if someone could help.”

He says it simply, like of course he’d help, because he had the option to. It’s not that kindness is unheard of in their business, but that that sort of no strings charity is rare. 

“That’s generous of you,” Clarke admits. 

Bellamy waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Where am I headed?”

She gives him the crossroads, and he nods, headed that way. 

The car falls into quietness again, and Clarke looks over at him. He’s more relaxed than she’s seen him before, probably because they’re both off the clock. His hair is messy, curlier with the humidity of the rain, falling into his face like a renaissance painter planned it. He has a dancer’s posture, where even relaxed, his back is straight and his chin is lifted. 

Not like his jawline needed the help. 

Meanwhile, Clarke can feel the last bits of whatever makeup remained after a day of rehearsal practically melting off her and into the leather seats. The windows are fogging up too, which is a nice touch. 

“Actually,” it’s Bellamy who breaks the silence this time, “is it alright if we run by Carpenter's Drive In? I’m running on empty here.”

“The car or you?” Clarke asks, genuinely unsure which he means. 

Bellamy laughs. “Me. You want a milkshake or anything?”

“That’s alright,” Clarke says. 

Bellamy looks at her, changing lanes to hop off the main thoroughfare. “I’m not going to just eat in front of you.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you bullied me into your car,” Clarke grumbles. 

Bellamy doesn’t say anything to that, but he might laugh again. 

Clarke sneaks another look at him, his eyes crinkling at the road in front of him.

It’s really unfair that someone should naturally just be so pretty. 

She doesn’t notice his smile fading until a hand comes up, subconsciously, to brush under his nose. 

“Got pushed into a dining room table,” he says. 

Clarke blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My…” Bellamy breaks off, looking away from the road, to look at her. “You were staring again; I thought it was the scar.”

Clarke’s going to chalk her blush up to mortification, although it could be a number of things. 

“Uh—” she starts, but Bellamy shrugs, easy. 

“It’s okay. Anyone who reads a column on me knows I didn’t come from gentility. My mom did what she had to do to keep food on the table. Sometimes, I didn’t like how people treated her, sometimes they didn’t like me back. Ergo…”

He trails off, gesturing to his face. 

“How old were you?” Clarke asks, not sure if it’s the right thing, but then again not sure there is a right thing to say at all. 

“Six,” Bellamy says, after a beat. “Funny the scars that stick around.”

Physical and emotional both, Clarke thinks. 

And she can go deeper down this path, or let him leave it, so she looks over to her clouded window. She traces a  _ fleur de lis _ in the condensation on the window, then sits back in the seat.

“This time,” she admits, “I was just looking awfully close.”

She feels Bellamy turn to look at her, surprised, but she keeps her eyes fixed ahead. She might smile, a bit. 

— 

Saturday is press day, and Clarke knows she got about a third of the sleep she needs for this day to go well.

But, she drags herself to makeup, lets some people with quicker hands and sterner eyes push powder into her face and coax her hair into thick curls. She lifts her arms obediently as they thread her into a feathery dress, a pale yellow that will read as white in the pictures, tight enough that she’s glad she didn’t eat this morning. 

She’s almost awake by the time she makes her way to Lot 4, where there’s a ridiculous amount of costumes already bustling around. She gets why junkets like this are a necessary evil, to generate buzz with the public, tease them with stills that are totally fabricated, but what she really wants is to sleep in one of the folded chairs off set. 

Marcus waves at her from inside, looking pleased with her ridiculous get up. 

She smiles, plastic, and scans the group until she can find Murphy. 

He’s perched on a crate at the other end of the stage, looking positively thrilled that he doesn’t have to be in a costume. They’ll probably grab him for a picture or two with Bellamy, something to show off their friendship and collaboration, maybe something with Clarke to show his tutelage. 

“Hiya, Tweetie,” he laughs when he catches sight of her and all her yellow feathers.

“Ha ha,” Clarke says drily. “Who does a girl have to wink at to get coffee?”

“Wrong tree,” Murphy shrugs. 

“Not you, Murph,” Clarke shakes her head. “If I thought you knew, I’d just beg you; we’re at that point.”

“I’m flattered,” Murphy says, zero inflection. “Tragically, I fear the costumers more than I fear you, and if you spill an ounce of anything on that plumage, they’ll kill us both.”

Clarke makes a face. “Wonderful. At least I won’t have to act to sell the Corpse Bride character.”

“Charming,” Murphy says, completely unaffected. “Want to see something cool?”

Clarke shrugs, and he hops off the crates. He whistles and waves at someone in another corner of the stage, by a gramophone, who puts needle to record and a roaring tune fills the stage.

It’s beginning, Clarke realizes.

The Ziegfeld Girls are up first; Murphy waves them onto the set and they hustle, energy infectious. Murphy has his hands up, directing them; he claps out a sequence, and the girls follow him. 

After a couple of minutes, he beckons for the photographers.

The record starts again, and Clarke thinks that maybe everything the man does is a dance. 

Direct the dancers, nod to the photographers, flash. Clap a sequence, call the pose to hold, flash. Bulbs flare as the girls kick, and it’s a little magnificent. 

Clarke finds herself again impressed with the energy as it carries on. 

At Arkadia, press days are quiet affairs, poetic and posed portraits, nothing this dynamic. The male ensemble is brought in to join them and Murphy calls another eight count. The dancers catch on right away, the photographers fall into place; there’s shouts and cues, flashes and poses, and it’s dazzling. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think we might be winning over Arkadia’s golden girl,” says a deep voice beside her. 

Clarke looks over, sees Bellamy in a suit. It’s a typical costume for him, top hat, white tie, tails, but he looks...like a movie star. Like the guy she’s used to seeing in papers, not the one who danced with her in Lot 7. 

She’s almost starstruck. 

Clarke smiles sheepishly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s incredible,” she says honestly. “It’s like a production, but just for pictures.”

Bellamy hums. 

He comes over to stand beside her, and the stage feels a little warmer; Clarke tells herself it’s the proximity. 

“You look the part,” he remarks.

“Which part?” Clarke asks, eyes carefully fixed on the dancers. 

“Leading lady,” Bellamy says.

Clarke looks over at him, surprised by that. She would’ve gone with showgirl, dancer, maybe, not that. Bellamy’s looking at the stage, eyes skimming over the movement there. 

He has a great profile, Clarke thinks, strong. Good bones, but beyond that, he just has character, personality you can see in a silhouette. 

As she’d noticed in the cafeteria, he’s slightly painted for the cameras. The scar on his lip is covered over, and someone’s run charcoal under his eyes, making them stand out even more.

Not that they needed help to start with; he has great eyes.

They slicked his hair back too, which she gets. It’s a debonair style, very suave. She likes his curls though, the admission of which surprises her, because she wouldn’t have thought she had any preferences when it came to her costar. 

“That’s kind of you,” she says. 

He looks down at her, frowning and smiling at once. “What? It’s not, it’s honest.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“Well,” she clears her throat. “Here’s hoping the illusion holds once Murphy starts directing us.”

Bellamy grins, and they go back to observance. 

They call her in first; Murphy arranges her in the middle of the Ziegfeld Girls, shows her a flourish that she imitates as the girls kick. She feels like it’s obvious that her level of competence is far beneath theirs, but hopes it doesn’t show. 

She’s ushered off, then Bellamy takes his place in front of the ensemble. 

Clarke feels a spark of jealousy; he looks so in his element. He taps off a quick volley and the photographers applaud appreciatively, then wait for him to do something simpler to catch on film. 

They usher the dancers off, and pull Roan Winters in. 

Clarke’s met him before, at other red carpets, a tower of a man who’s their villain. The costumers took Bellamy’s eyeliner and doubled it; Roan glowers at the cameras and they love it. 

They pull Bellamy back, then, have some doubles shots of Roan crouching and Bellamy leaping. It’s perfect, honestly, how Murphy captures their energy in a moment. 

Roan slinks across the stage as Bellamy dances, shadow and light; it’s incredible. 

More actors, more sequences, and Clarke loses track. 

When she’s called back, she’s nearly forgotten that she has to look besotted with Bellamy (she’s pretty sure that alliteration is a popular pap headline). But Murphy keeps his energy, guides them through their waltz in slowed time, freezing them so photographers can get the right capture. Clarke’s shedding feathers over the stage, but it’s...fun, fun is what it is. Has she ever had fun on a shoot before? But being spun by Bellamy, directed by Murphy, it’s the most relevant word. 

Her smile isn’t faked. 

Not that the cameras can tell the difference, but she feels light. 

They wrap quickly, usher the ensemble into changing rooms; Clarke lets costumers swarm her. They swap the gown for a matching trousers and cashmere set, as if she’d ever practice in a full face of makeup with her hair done. But she gets it, it’s for the pictures. 

Murphy’s tucking his shirt in, and he beckons for her to come over as they roll back the backdrop. It looks like an empty stage, not quite Lot 7, but it’ll do. He poses with a gramaphone, pensive as she twirls, like he’s instructing her, creating a story for the cameras. He then steps in, walks her through the waltz and they get a couple dorky shots. 

Bellamy steps in, the same waltz as before. 

Clarke wonders what the cameras see.

Two costars, amicable enough?

A dancer and an actress trying her best?

The actress from Arkadia, who maybe looks a little too softly at the dancer from Guard, something like a crush on her face?

That’s it for her, it’s a supporting role after all, but before she can get back to the dressing room, someone intercepts her.

Finn Collins. 

He’s a run of the mill extra, an actor that isn’t contracted to one studio, but is commonplace on lots of them, so it tracks that he’s here. He’s also someone she slept with once, when she was much younger, and much worse at handling her alcohol. 

“Clarke Griffin,” he purrs, looking her over. “Didn’t think I’d see you on a set like this one.”

“Here I am,” she says, unsure what else to say. “Do we share any scenes in this one?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thankfully, actually acting, none of this charlatan stuff.”

“Come again?” Clarke asks. 

“Oh, you know, this,” Finn says, waving to the sound stage. “The dancing, flourishes, the drama of it all. Not the actual acting we do.”

“The actual acting,” Clarke repeats, voice blank. 

The dancing he’s condescending to has worn her feet raw for the last three weeks. She’s never been more proud than she’s been when she’s completed these routines with no mistakes, and sure, it’s not the same as drama, but it’s still hard work, and nothing to be ashamed of. 

“Sure,” Finn says, unbothered.

“Alright,” Clarke mutters, before changing her tone to diplomacy. “Well, it’s been good to see you, but I really should get changed—”

“What’s your hurry?” Finn says, casually reaching out to grab her upper arm, stopping her from brushing by him. Clarke sighs internally. She knows the man flirts as second nature, but what she wants to do right now is wash the pound of makeup off her face, not make nice with another actor. 

Maybe if she’s extra pliant, it’ll be over faster. 

“Oh, you know,” she says breezily, “the sooner I get to practice, the sooner we get to film, the sooner this spectacle is over.”

Finn barks a laugh, letting go of his arm. “That’s the Clarke I expected. Ready to get back to actual pictures, yeah?”

Clarke smiles, thin, disappointed in both of them that this is working. “Of course,” she says, voice polished. “I’m here to work, Finn, not enjoy myself.”

“I don’t know,” the man practically pouts. “You looked pretty pleased during the photos.”

“That’s because I’m an actress,” she smiles. 

“And a damn good one,” Finn purrs, but his expression freezes when he sees something over her shoulder. 

Clarke turns quickly, curious, and her heart stops. 

Bellamy is standing just behind her. 

_ Chier.  _

How much did he hear? He can’t think she meant it, can he? She’d been lying through her teeth to Finn, but he doesn’t have any way of knowing that, but surely he wouldn’t think she’d be so cruel. 

Judging by his expression, he can.

She licks her lips. “Bellamy, I—”

He takes a step back, holding up a hand, and then running it through his hair. He scoffs, a quick, jarring sound, and shakes his head. 

“Save it for the pictures, Clarke,” he says, a stony expression on his face. 

There’s a timbre on his voice that she hasn’t heard since the Chateau Marmont.

He takes another step back, and his hands fall into his pockets, then he turns away, dropping back and weaving into the crowd of the ensemble. 

Clarke’s mouth is dry; this can’t be happening. Not as she’s lying to get Finn to leave her alone, not after how good things were going, not when she might actually care—

But it is happening.

Bellamy walks away, and Clarke feels numb, standing on a soundstage with half of Hollywood’s paparazzi snapping pictures of a set that has suddenly fit the title of the film. 

— 

“Clarke, darling, you’re a vision.”

Clarke smiles inanely at the praise from the other side of the recording booth, at the director who’s thrilled with the melancholy air she’s infused into the song she’s recording.

Crooning is easy enough.

The piece is incredibly simplistic, just her bemoaning that something’s afoot, that Jack doesn’t notice or love her.

She’s making a valiant effort of concealing how honest the song feels. 

A couple more takes, and they have it. 

The director and sound coordinator let her take a break while they bicker about a new piece they need. They’ve been toying with her doing a rendition of ‘This is Halloween’, something haunting while Jack is spiraling somewhere. Clarke doesn’t think she has the tone for the song, but they’ll probably try to make it work.

It’s not working. 

It’s too upbeat, even as they try to slow the tempo. The cadence is incorrect, and something about it reads as a fun number, not something that matches her voice.

Clarke’s not even offended.

They keep mulling it over though, isolating different instruments, even transposing it once, and Clarke’s tired of picking at her nailbeds while they ponder. 

They take it back up the octave, but do it at a third of the time. 

She trips up on the chorus, botching the rhythm, and she winces when she hears the playback. “ _ Fils de pute _ ,” she mutters.

The sound coordinator and director jump up. 

“That’s it,” the former snaps, pointing at her.

“How the hell did we forget about school in France?” the latter cries. “Clarke, how’s your translation?”

She frowns. “Um, it’s alright?”

“Can you sing the song in French?”

Now there’s a concept. 

“Can I have a pen and paper, please?” she asks. The box scrambles as they flutter around for her requested implements. They give the orchestra a break as she sits on the floor, translating as best she can. 

It works. 

It weirdly works, the words in a foreign tongue. It keeps the cadence and rhythm of the first rendition, but shows Sally’s alienation, how she feels misunderstood. The audience will recognize the reprise without needing the translation. 

The director and coordinator are pleased and Clarke thinks that this is what she would’ve wanted two weeks ago. To add depth to a musical, to flesh out a one-note character and create some conflict where there was none. A victory, to be sure.

But it feels hollow. 

Bellamy sends a pageboy to their next joint practice session; he’s caught up in other rehearsals, can Murphy run through the routine with Clarke? Murphy mutters something snide, and Clarke can’t appreciate it. 

He’s avoiding her.

She knew it would happen, but she didn’t think it could be so absolute. 

In fact, she hardly sees him over the next week as they forge through rehearsals. Murphy’s too good of an instructor for her to feel the loss in any practical way, but she knows he knows something’s up too. 

They actually don’t have that many scenes together. It’s Jack Skellington’s story, and since Sally spends most of the film pining, she doesn’t interact much with him. 

The rehearsals they do share are...professional. 

Clarke is certain the extras and the directors don’t notice anything is off; they’re good enough actors for that. 

Bellamy’s a great actor, actually. 

Clarke hasn’t seen many of his films, but she knows the type—charming, cheery, uplifting. She hadn’t really considered that they’d contain nuance, or that their star could. But he does, and he carries his part of their shared scenes with ease. He’s easy to play off of, inhabiting the role, and Clarke wonders if she could talk Marcus into casting him in a dramatic role. 

Not that Bellamy would accept any career direction from her.

Not that she blames him. 

He won’t talk to her, literally not at all. 

He’s not even openly rude about it, just always finds someone else to talk to, or something to be engaged with. It’s like he has a wall set up, a veneer that she can’t get past, and as the week goes up, Clarke accepts that the kindest thing to do is stop trying. 

She didn’t mean it; she knows that. And if Bellamy won’t let her explain it, then she can’t blame him, and she won’t let it get in the way of this picture.

So she stops trying.

The final dance rehearsal, Bellamy doesn’t show. When a page boy shows up again, Murphy doesn’t even read it, just crumples the paper and tosses it to the floor with the other ashes. Clarke finds a nickel in her purse for the boy, and Murphy leads their rehearsal. 

It rushes by. 

Clarke’s body still aches, and the movements still feel unnatural, but she hasn’t missed a step in a week. Murphy has stopped critiquing her, too, just offers clipped suggestions, but they’re not mistakes he’s correcting. 

After a particularly quick run through of the opening number, Murphy beckons for Clarke to follow him outside. It’s dusk, and Guard Studios is cast in a golden light; Murphy lights a cigarette and offers one to Clarke. She contemplates taking it, just because if there ever was a moment, this is it. 

She declines. 

They’re quiet in the darkening air, watching stray cast members hustle by. Some garbage blows on the evening wind, and a bicycle or two whisk past. 

“So did you do something, or is Bellamy just being a dick?” Murphy asks, after a minute.

Clarke considers denying it, for a moment. 

“A little of both,” she says. 

“That’s what I figured,” Murphy says. 

Clarke wonders what it means that Bellamy hasn’t told anyone. If he’s brooding or trying to protect her image, or both or neither. 

“Unfortunately,” she says, “It’s a misunderstanding. I was—careless. Talking to someone else, he overheard...it was fair, the assumption he made. If he believed what I said, it was cruel.”

Murphy flicks ashes onto the pavement. “Did you believe what you said?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I was trying to get someone to leave me alone.”

Murphy whistles. “Was it worth it?”

“Not a bit,” Clarke says, jaw clenching.

Murphy hums, and a spark falls. “Want me to blacklist someone?” 

Clarke smiles, even though he’s not looking. “You even have that kind of power, Murphy?” 

He laughs, head falling back against the side of the lot. “For you, daff? I’ll figure it out.” 

She thinks he probably means it. 

“Thanks,” she says quietly. 

Murphy finishes the cig and when they go back inside, he’s a little quiet. They run the routines again, and Clarke pretends not to notice that he takes it easy on her as they rehearse, and that he doesn’t light a cigarette for the rest of the day. 

—

The actual shoot flies by. 

Clarke wishes she had something to dig her nails into, clench her fists tightly and keep it from slipping away. 

But each day stays on schedule. 

And then it’s a wrap for her. 

She hugs Murphy tightly, surprised by the depth of her emotion. She hadn’t expected to make an actual friend out of him, and here she is, genuinely disappointed to be walking away from Lot 7 for the last time. He pats her back uncertainly, clearing his throat aggressively, tells her he’ll see her at the premiere.

_ Nom de dieu _ , she hasn’t considered the premiere.

Hoards of press, asking for interviews and clips, thousands of photographs, a million stories and lies to be told from the night. Articles and pictures circulated, next to reviews of her first dancing performance, Murphy’s choreographic triumph, and whatever else they’d want to say. 

Hopefully something kind about Bellamy.

It’s not that Clarke expects the silence to lift on her last day, but she’s a little hurt when it doesn’t. 

Nothing happens. 

She wraps her scene, says her goodbyes, and he’s busy.

So she leaves. 

The film will be shooting for the next couple of weeks, and then it’ll go into post-production. They’ll start circulating advertisements, the cast’s faces on posters in primary colors next to “The Nightmare Before Christmas” in ridiculous bubble letters; she’ll have second billing. 

Marcus sends her three scripts for Arkadia, serious roles, and she picks  _ The Commander _ , a story of a daughter of an emperor who heads up the army to retake her kingdom when her father is overthrown in a coup. 

It’s good.

There’s a couple brilliant monologues, and the costuming is rich and textural. The cast is good, the rehearsals professional, and the score might win an award or two. The kitchen staff prepares her trays carefully and the sound stages are swept clear of dust and ash alike.

It’s all so organized.

Clarke can’t believe she misses the carnival energy of Guard, the frenzy and the fury of that chaos. But she does. She misses being annoyed by the ash in the air on Lot 7, and the fact that everyone was late to shoots because no one was beholden to calendars but to the vision. She misses the ridiculous costumes, so far from historically accurate, and the music that the cast sang. 

There’s one more thing she misses, but she can’t go there, not even in her plaintive moments.

Missing doesn’t do anyone any good. 

So she puts her head down, burrows into  _ The Commander _ , and reminds herself that time and life have an extraordinarily steady habit of progressing onwards. 

The press comes out and Marcus is thrilled. 

Clarke asks for some to be sent to her trailer and when she looks at it, she’s a little shaken. It’s good, exceptionally so. 

The ensemble pictures are incredible, the crew looks resplendent in their costumes and the movement is captured in all the stills. There’s a couple of Murphy directing, lazy and attentive at once. Hers aren’t her best, but they sell the vision of the film. Bellamy’s look as she expected, every bit the role he’s projected to play. Unwittingly her hand hovers over a picture, tracing a stray curl that’s broken out of its gel hold. When she gets to the portraits of the two of them, she’s stunned. 

The waltz portraits, in Bellamy’s tuxedo and her feather gown, are glamorous and elegant, escapist as any PR department could ask for. But the casual ones, with Murphy in the back with his gramophone and a knowing smirk, those are unexpected.

She looks happy. 

She looks like she’s having fun, and what’s more, she looks enamored. 

Bellamy looks adoring. 

There’s a picture of them mid time step, arms extended, but looking at each other and their eyes are laughing. 

There’s one of her spinning under his arm, and Bellamy’s expression can only be described as tender.

Each picture Clarke looks at, her heart clenches. 

They’re beautiful pictures, each of them, perfect in their portrayal of the characters and the energy and for promoting the musical. 

And not half an hour after these shots, she ruined it. 

The only problem is that neither of them are that good of actors. 

—

“Daff!”

Clarke’s smile is genuine on the red carpet when she hears the nickname yelled above the paparazzi calling for her attention. 

Her gown doesn’t swivel easily, but she turns as best she can, to see Murphy bounding up the carpet towards her. She hugs him, expression unguarded, knowing the press will love this reunion. Sure enough, the flashes are nearly blinding as the cameras strain to capture their embrace. 

She pulls back, still holding onto his upper arms, and Murphy hasn’t let go of her. 

Clarke isn’t prepared for the rush of emotion she feels. This man helped her through one of the biggest challenges in her career, was an ally when he had no incentive to be, and was wildly talented to boot. 

“It’s good to see you, Murphy,” she says, mildly appalled at how choked her voice is. 

“You too, Griffin,” Murphy grins back. He gets it, she knows. 

He offers her his arm and she takes it; they pose for some more photos and continue towards the theater.

She hears when he arrives. 

The press has been fussing over her since she’s arrived and there’s only one person who could pull their attention from her; when the flashes start fading, she knows it means Bellamy’s car is here. 

She wonders if he drove himself, if the fleur de lis is still on the passenger seat window.

“You good?” Murphy asks, out of the corner of his mouth, in case any of the paps are still watching. 

She squeezes his elbow, where her hand is resting in the crook of his arm. “Ask me in a couple hours, yeah?” 

“On it,” he says back. 

The paparazzi is calling for solo shots of him, so Clarke lets go of his arm and heads up the steps. She hears a couple shutters sound as they capture her ascent, but the roar is mostly behind her. At the top of the stairs, she pauses, she can’t help it. She looks.

Bellamy is at the end of the red carpet, smiling into the sea of flashing bulbs, perfect posture and debonair smile. He looks around at the crowd and then, he looks up. 

At her. 

Clarke doesn’t know how he does it, but his eyes find her, at the top of the stairs, and they regard each other for a long moment. 

What is he thinking, she wants to know, what’s running through his mind, behind his Hollywood mask?

She wonders if he’s wondering the same. 

But neither of them crack their perfect veneers. 

They nod slightly, acknowledgement for the watchful eye of the cameras, and Clarke turns. As she walks into the theater, she’s grateful for the long gloves covering her fingers, hiding their shaking. 

An usher shows her to her seat, and Clarke settles into it.

Odd that it’s an aisle seat... _ merde _ .

It’s an aisle seat because she’s supposed to sing. 

She’d agreed to do it, of course, so she’s known, but it’s settling in that she’s about to sing “ _ c’est ça halloween _ ” to an audience at the premiere of a film no one expected her to make.

The theater fills slowly, plenty of people come up to greet her. 

They’re so excited for the film, they say, such a breaking of type for her! How impressed they are with her versatility! How exciting! And how was it, the older women pause with a wink, working with Mr. Blake. 

Clarke smiles and smiles and wonders if she might crack a tooth from how intently she’s smiling. She says thank you, thank you, and he’s just so dreamy, isn’t he?

Everyone’s impressed.

The theater continues to fill.

She’s addressing an old classmate from Beaux-Arts when she feels a presence beside her, someone reaching their assigned seats. 

Honestly.

Who did she expect it to be, but Bellamy. 

As he sits, her crowd dissipates, which she also should’ve expected. The scene bears eerie similarity to the mess hall at Guard Studios, a room watching them, pretending to be involved with other concerns. 

Clarke smooths her gown, adjusts her gloves, reminds herself to unclench her jaw and relax her tongue from the roof of her mouth. 

“Hi,” she says finally. 

“Good to see you,” Bellamy says. His voice sounds—is gruff the right word? What’s in the middle of unfamiliar and guarded? 

“You too,” Clarke offers.

She looks at him, and he looks back, neither knowing what they’re reading.

Surely this should’ve faded by now?

The lights dim, and they look away, almost guilty. 

The announcer steps on the stage in front of the screen and the auditorium erupts with applause. The speeches go as they normally do, and Clarke blurs it all out. 

She should be rehearsing, running through her conjugations for a song she’s pushed out of her mind for months now. Cheery lyrics, charming melody, halloweentown, she thinks.

They introduce her.

An usher comes to help her from her seat, guide her and her gown to the stage; Clarke goes as gracefully as she can manage. The polite applause dies as Clarke steps in front of the microphone. She looks down at the orchestra pit below the audience, recognizes the faces there and waves at a couple of them. 

“Good evening,” she says into the microphone. The audience choruses back, and something in the back of Clarke’s mind stills her hands, calms her nerves. 

Perform, it whispers.

It’s what she’s best at. 

The band has started to play faintly, a soft melody of This Is Halloween for her to give her opening remarks over. 

She smiles.

“If you had told me, a year ago, that I would’ve been standing on a stage tonight, I would have said, “Oh, to introduce the premiere?””

The audience laughs, some a little too loud, but Clarke doesn’t mind. 

“But I am here tonight,” she says. “As a performer. This role was one of the most challenging of my career, and one of the dearest. Not only did I get the opportunity to experience an entirely new genre of cinema, but I got to work with the most talented cast and crew in that genre: Mounsieurs Blake and Murphy, ladies and gentleman!”

She looks at Murphy, and he grins at her as he waves to the audience, as they cheer for him. She assumes Bellamy does the same, but if she looks at him, she’ll lose her nerve. 

As the audience quiets again, Clarke clears her throat. 

“And now I’m supposed to sing for you. I...I translated the opening song into French, and was prepared to sing it, but, if it’s alright with all of you, and you, of course,” she looks down at the conductor, who shrugs encouragingly. “I’d like to sing another song from the picture.”

The crowd titters and the conductor flips over a page. If Clarke weren’t racked with nerves, she’d laugh at the fact that she only has two songs to her credit in this film, so the band knows exactly which song she’s going to sing. 

“This is called ‘Sally’s Song’,” she tells the audience. “I hope you like it.”

The band begins and Clarke closes her eyes as the words come back to her, right away.

_ “I sense there's something in the wind that feels like tragedy's at hand. And though I'd like to stand by him, can't shake this feeling that I have. The worst is just around the bend, and does he notice my feelings for him, and will he see how much he means to me, I think it's not to be.” _

The melody is simple, the words too, and as Clarke sings them, she feels them unfurl from her heart. Her eyes find Murphy’s in the crowd; his are bright, a suspicious sheen over them.

_ “What will become of my dear friend,” _ she sings to him, and he shakes his head a little, smiling all the same.  _ “Where will his actions lead us then? Although I'd like to join the crowd in their enthusiastic cloud, try as I may, it doesn't last…” _

She breaks off before the last line, the band continues and she looks at Bellamy. 

The crowd doesn’t know the song, don’t know what comes next. They’ll see her look at him, but they don’t know the words; let it be her secret, for an hour more. 

She lifts her chin, and when the last verse begins, she sings it directly to him. 

“ _ Parfois, la vie me semble un drame, saura-t-il un jour m’offrir son amour? Saurai-je lui plaire? Ce n’est pas mon destin et je l’espère... En vain _ .”

The crowd is quiet as the last notes from the orchestra die. 

Bellamy’s jaw is clenched, shock playing across his face as he understands, registers, what she’s just done. What she’s professed, declared, in front of their agents and the press and everyone they’ve worked with. 

_ Sometimes, life seems like a drama to me—will he one day offer me his love? Will I be enough for him? It's not my destiny and I hope in vain. _

The conductor nods to her, bows slightly, and she bows back. 

The auditorium erupts, people on their feet, yelling. They don’t know what she’s done but they felt it, the honesty of it, the raw feeling in every note of it. 

Clarke’s hand covers her heart, a movement and moment of gratitude. She feels lighter than she has in months, like the thing that’s been pressing her down, heavy on her shoulders has lifted, and now she can breathe. 

Now she can breathe.

Clarke backs away from the microphone, bowing slightly. She blows a kiss at the conductor, waves to the crowd. The usher waits for her at the edge of the stage and she hesitates for the first time. 

What is she going to do, go back and sit beside Bellamy?

She moves her hand slightly at the usher, walks past him, to the offstage. 

“Miss Griffin—” a stage hand begins, and she shakes her head at him. 

“Get the announcer back out there,” she tells him. “The premiere can start.”

As she rushes through the backstage, a couple of people congratulate her; Clarke doesn’t hear them. She needs air, fresh night air. 

The catharsis of confession waning and exhaustion creeps in as Clarke bursts out the side door of the theater. She draws in a deep breath, the cold air snaking into her lungs, curling in her stomach. 

She did it. 

She voiced the thing she thought she couldn’t, the thing she’s been rationalizing away and minimizing for months. The thing she thought was unprofessional, the thing that she worried was mild and emotional, she’d let it blossom. She’d believed in it and believed in herself, and no matter what the press thinks of the picture, she’ll have that. 

_ The Commander  _ will do well enough to resuscitate her career, if they hate it.

Although, if the way they responded to her song was any indication, they won’t hate it. 

Clarke leans against the side of the theater, breathing deep, breaking slow. The brick is probably tearing at the silk of her gown, but she needs the support. 

Vaguely, she registers the sound of the theater door swinging open. 

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, and her eyes fly open. 

He’s in the alleyway, half his face illuminated by the light from the theater. 

Clarke pushes away from the wall, pressing her hands together, waiting for him to come to her. 

“I had to tell you,” she says, hating that her voice is shaking. “I know you have no reason to reciprocate, or to trust me after what you heard but—”

“It’s not,” Bellamy says. 

He comes down the steps quickly, steadily, and he’s in front of her, then. His hair is mussed, tie loosened like he couldn’t breathe and Clarke steps back because it’s too close, she can’t think with him this close, not even after months. 

“It’s not?” she echoes weakly, not understanding. 

“It’s not in vain,” Bellamy says.

There’s a vehemence in his words, an intensity in his eyes and when Clarke understands the reference, Bellamy’s hand is on the back of her neck, he pulls her to him, and he kisses her. 

Clarke stumbles, falls a little into him, which seems to suit Bellamy just fine because he steadies her with his arms. Clarke can barely think, he’s all around her, the sweetest overwhelming, and her mind is just chanting his name over and over again, Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy, so when he finally draws back, the only thing she can breathe is his name. 

He smiles, so different up close, rippling, and his hand comes up to gently trace the side of her face. 

“Murphy told me,” he says. “It-it was too late. When he explained it to me, I knew I’d overreacted, and I didn’t think you could forgive me for how I treated you.”

Clarke shakes her head, insistent. “I didn’t think  _ you  _ could forgive  _ me _ , after what I said to Finn, and—”

“It’s not the same,” Bellamy interrupts. “It’s a different industry for you and me, and I should’ve known you better, by then, to know there must be an explanation.”

Clarke opens her mouth then closes it again. Her fingers are in his hair, and he leans lightly into her touch. 

“If I’m sorry and you’re sorry,” she begins. 

“And if you’re forgiven and I’m forgiven…” Bellamy adds. 

Clarke smiles, leaning up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his again. She pulls back, unable to stop her smile, needing to see him again. She stares at him, eyes flitting between his, the widest grin on her face. 

“Then I believe we’re missing our premiere,” she says.

Bellamy laughs, then, the sweetest sound, and Clarke thinks she could listen to it forever. Something in her heart settles at the sound, and a part of her wonders if maybe, just maybe, she will. 

—

**INSIDE NEWS OF HOLLYWOOD**

By Jasper Jordan  
Los Angeles, Calif.   
November 1, 1936

_ Last night saw the premiere of Guard Studio’s stunning triumph—The Nightmare Before Christmas. Exactly the diversion for which we had hoped, the film was a feat of dancing, drama, romance, and adventure. Bellamy Blake led the cast with his normal charm, but was lent an air of gentility by the grace of his costar, Clarke Griffin. Miss Griffin, in turn, displayed a new side of carefree abandon, dazzling in her routines. John Murphy outdid himself here, folks, and I would not be surprised to see his name added to the roster, come awards season. The realest treat, for those lucky enough to attend the premiere, were the sparks flying between the costars on the carpet and inside the theater (if the grapevine is to be believed, the pair may have slipped out, even before the end of the movie!). Our imaginations run wild. Dearest readers, all we can do is turn again to our stars—thank them for this film, beg them for another, and send Miss Griffin and Mr Blake our warmest (and most curious) regards.  _

—

**Author's Note:**

> Is Murphy inspired by Hermes Pan (and clurphy, by his relationship with Ginger Rogers)? Yes. Is Clarke’s second solo inspired by this one girl on tiktok who does French covers of other songs? Yes, and here’s [her cover ](https://www.tiktok.com/@margauxbeylier/video/6883309812155682053) that I envisioned clarke singing!


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